Mister Fake Fiance

“It’s impossible to be sorry about kissing a beautiful woman. I’m not going to start lying now.”

“Oh.” She pulls her lips in, looking half lost and half confused.

Her reaction tugs at me. Hasn’t anybody ever complimented her? Not even that fucking Fordham?

Regardless, she still looks a little lost, like a child who’s ventured too far from the safety of her home. She

chews on her lower lip for a while, the gears in her head turning the entire time.

I hope she’s not regretting what just happened. It was the most unexpectedly hot kiss ever. And I’ve had my share of experience with women.

“Um. I think it’s better if we have the rest of the cobbler later,” Erin says.

Disappointment swells, but I shove it down ruthlessly. At least she didn’t call it a mistake and retreat. “Good idea.” Then, because I’m not a total masochist, I add, “I’ll go get the ice cream.”

* * *

Erin

While David’s out, I put the peach cobbler away, my mouth still tingling. I put my hand to my lips, but that doesn’t do a thing to make the nerves there settle down. As a matter of fact, it just seems to make things worse, making the prickling sensation spread all through my body until I’m throbbing all over.

Oh my God.

Something in our relationship fundamentally shifted with that kiss. Nobody shares a kiss like that and goes back to a platonic boss-and-worker situation.

But is it wise to push our fake engagement to include a more physical aspect? What if things become messy and complicated? What if David finds out about my family history? Is he going to think I took advantage of him?

And his mother’s going to visit next weekend!

I cover my face with my hands and groan, the sound muffled against my palms. I just can’t process all this right now. It’s too overwhelming.

If I didn’t have any baggage, maybe I’d be jumping up and down with joy. What woman wouldn’t when a hot, attractive man wants her? But I’m not most women.

I sag against the kitchen counter and sigh. I have no idea what to do now.

Chapter Thirty-Two

David

For the rest of the weekend, Erin and I both pretend the kiss never happened. It’s not by my choice. She’s so skittish and awkward that if I push her, she’s going to freak out. Might even pack up and go back to her place.

I don’t want her to move out. To prevent her from even bringing it up, I tell her it’s going to be weird if she isn’t living with me anymore. “I know the paparazzi have lost interest, but Mom will definitely ask questions if she realizes you moved back home.”

Erin nods, and I let out a breath I’ve been holding.

Even if all we’re doing is watching TV together or quietly reading, I want her nearby. For some reason, I like being around her, just being close and knowing she’s there. It’s something I’ve never experienced with another woman, not even with Shelly. With them, unless we were doing something together, I didn’t necessarily want or need them around, and the feeling was probably mutual.

We also share the peach cobbler, which I can eat without too much pain and suffering since it doesn’t contain chili sauce. Erin made a carrot cake for me once and apparently couldn’t find red food coloring. So she used chili sauce to get the color right. Unfortunately, she didn’t disclose the fact until I bit into it. It was not pleasant. And since I’m too nice of a boss, I didn’t have the heart to yell or scream. I just swallowed it with a fake smile and drank two bottles of orange juice.

With ice cream, the cobbler is at least palatable. Erin and I finish all of it before Sunday evening.

On Monday, about ten minutes before lunch break, I try to do a quick review of a couple of reports, but find myself wondering if Erin will enjoy her shopping trip with the fashion consultant/personal shopper I hired. Josephine Martinez is supposed to be amazing. Erin was hesitant to take time off from work, but when I brought up Mom’s upcoming visit, she left—albeit reluctantly—probably having decided on her own that she needs more than just business casual to hang out with Mom.

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, adjusting myself. The weekend has taught me I must be a sexual deviant or masochist or whatever the term is. My libido goes into overdrive every time I think about Erin, how she looks, how she smells, how she felt when I kissed her. My dick, that unhelpful appendage, swells almost painfully.

What the hell.

I forcibly drag my attention back to reviewing the reports, then stop when I spot a receptionist hovering at my door.